


In My Veins

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't even know to be honest, M/M, MAJOR character death as in MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, but - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He hadn’t seen it coming."</p><p>Universe Alteration - starts with the arrival of Jean Valjean at the Barricades</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Andrew Belle's "In My Veins"
> 
> Sorry in advance

He hadn’t seen it coming.  
  
He had been talking to the newly arrived man, Prouvaire and Combeferre directly behind him. Barrels aimed at the man’s head. Even Grantaire had drawn his pistol, menacing frown directed at the old man, who had reminded him of the spy then.  
  
The National Guard uniform had been a cause to worry, forcing them all to act.  
  
And that had been the moment when it hit.  
  
It began with a bang, and a sharp pain in his abdomen followed. Heat and cold spreading fast from his stomach through his whole chest. His knees gave in under his weight, and a harsh cough forced itself from his lungs, causing him to double over.  
  
Dozens of worried hands touched him, tried to help him up, as his vision blurred, and a cold grasp closed around his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.  
  
He managed to identify Combeferre by his scarf, forced his arm and hand to move and clutch at it, while his friend barked orders, shouting for Joly, whose face came into view a second later. Someone began to press one of the flags against the pain.  
  
“Enjolras!” Joly hissed, steadying his head by putting both hands to the sides of his face. “Enjolras, I need you to focus on my voice. Hang in there. You’ll pull through this.”  
  
‘Pull through what?’ he wanted to ask, tried to form the words, but there was no air in his lungs left to form the words, cold still clinging to him like a leech, pulling the force from his limbs.  
  
Joly’s voice sounded through the mist again. “Take deep calm breaths.”  
  
He tried, but the thing in his body simply forced him into another coughing fit, letting the world spin around him, and colouring the side of his vision black.  
  
“Damn, Enjolras, we need you,” the medic yelped, voice wavering. “Okay, once again, focus on me. One, two, one, two…”  
  
Another desperate attempt, but the air felt like water in his lungs, burning his insides, forcing his body to strain against breathing.  
  
He was on the verge of panicking, barely seeing, limbs numb and eyelids heavy, forcing themselves shut.  
  
“Enjolras, oh Christ, ENJOLRAS!” Grantaire cried, and another pair of hands started pressing against his abdomen, hastily replacing the skilled hands. “Oh god, no, don’t do this to us.”  
  
Joly was still counting, sobs mixing into the breaths in-between.  
  
Enjolras tried to focus on his friend’s voice, and forced his lungs to take a deep breath on the count of one, and release it on two.  
  
After a moment, his vision began to clear, the mist clouding his mind lifted. He managed to make out Joly’s face once again. The medic was crying, but his attention was fully concentrated on his abdomen.  
  
“Joly, I think he’s reacting, his eyelids are fluttering!” Grantaire again. “Joly, he’s pulling through!” His voice turned into a hysteric cry, screaming for the other student’s reassurance, but Joly was shaking his head, more tears falling down from his face.  
  
“I… I need to try to remove the bullet, otherwise he’ll never survive, Taire, I’m sorry.”  
  
He heard Grantaire retorting something, nearly yelling at Joly. Combeferre took him, and pulled him away, while the cynic kicked and screamed.  
  
Enjolras focused on Joly again. Panic in his eyes, his friend was constantly murmuring, talking about ‘applied pressure’ and ‘fast removal’.  
  
A sharp pain, stronger than the initial one went through Enjolras’ abdomen, and hands pushed him down, before the world blacked out.

 

 

His memories of the following time was blurry, with shouts forcing themselves through to him, making his ears ring, while cries pierced his heart, and caring touches froze his mind.  
  
The only straight line in his recollections of the hours spent slipping in and out of consciousness, were the unmoving warmth next to him, keeping his body from falling apart, and a voice, telling him tales of princes that gave up their fortune and inheritance to save their lands.

 

 

His next real memory consisted of pain and the familiar sight of the backroom of the Café Musain. Shelves of wine and absinthe bottles lining up the walls next to barrels of beverages, their towering making his mind waver, and a formerly homely yellow on the walls stinging his eyes.  
  
Enjolras squinted, turned his gaze to the floor, and shut his eyes.  
  
Something shuffled against him, and a voice spoke up next to him.  
  
“Enjolras, are you awake? Oh Christ, you’re alive.”  
  
The blonde tilted his head back.  
  
“Hey, answer me, oh god, do you need anything?” Grantaire muttered, worried.  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but the dryness in his throat forced him to cough. Pain stabbed his insides while air forced itself out of his lungs.  
  
“Watch it!” the cynic jumped. “You are heavily wounded, don’t move too much. What were you trying to say?”  
  
Enjolras swallowed. “I was saying: For a cynic who believes in nothing, you curse the heavens quite often.”  
  
A sarcastic chuckle went through Grantaire. “And for an immortal statue resembling Apollo, you die quite easily, Enjolras.”  
  
Grantaire’s features hardened as soon as he had said it, and he shuffled once more. Enjolras couldn’t make out whether he was moving away from him or closer to him.  
  
He turned his head to look at him. “For how long have I been unconscious?” he asked, trying to change the subject slightly.  
  
“One or perhaps two hours. I’m not quite sure. It is still night, and no one has tried to attack the barricade, in case you were wondering,” he paused to look at the floor. “Well, of course you were wondering.”  
  
Enjolras simply nodded, and they both stopped talking, while he tried to recall what exactly had happened.  
  
He remembered the pain which was still burning his insides and clouding his thoughts.  
  
He remembered Joly trying to help him, trying to get the bleeding to stop and somehow treat the wound by removing the bullet. The memory set his guts on fire once more, and he flinched.  
  
Grantaire was immediately cowering next to him, hand on his shoulder and eyes fixed on him. “Don’t move around or it’ll get worse,” he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
The violent ache made him gasp for air while he tried to calm down again, Grantaire’s hand steadying his body.  
  
“Did Joly remove the bullet or manage to do something else?” Enjolras asked, eyes fixed on the cynic’s.  
  
Both went quiet, before Grantaire averted his eyes by turning away, pushing up to stand.  
  
“No.” He pulled a hand through his hair. “He did not, the bleeding was too strong, and organs have been damaged, and…” He paused again. “The bullet, it… He can’t find it.”  
  
“So I’m…” _‘dying.’_

Grantaire strode through the room, stopping in front of the shelves, hands pressed to his sides and curled into fists.  
  
“Yeah, funny, isn’t it?” he laughed, and shook his head, steadied himself with an arm against the shelf. “I’ve always talked about you dying a heroic death for your cause. I’ve _joked_ about it. Made fun of your oh-so-near death. Mocked you and your ideals. Spoke of the devil, and the devil showed up, as you see.” He flung his other arm into the general direction of Enjolras.  
  
Enjolras found himself at a loss of words, too absorbed by his own thoughts, spinning around the point of certain death through a simple ambush.  A carefully planned revolution against injustice, destroyed by a mere distraction. Had the man just been there to do exactly that? Kill the leader, kill the revolt?  
  
A bang snapped him out of it. Grantaire had kicked one of the shelves, causing the bottles on it to shiver.  
  
Collecting his thoughts, Enjolras tried to sit up straighter, causing another jolt of sharp pain to go through his body. He watched the cynic cross the room once more, and formed the words in his head before saying them.  
  
“Grantaire, this is not your fault, I was reckless, and it’s my own responsibility.” The other man chuckled sarcastically. “Stop. I’m not dying because you mocked my cause and me.”  
  
“Yeah, as long as you believe that, I’ll believe in it, too, of course,” Grantaire laughed.  
  
Enjolras averted his eyes to the ground, silent.  
  
The cynic sat down in one of the corners, farthest away from his leader, while Enjolras twisted the hay on the ground, trying to crush it in his fists.  
  
“I want to talk to everyone.” Grantaire didn’t look up. “I want to say goodbye to every single one of them.”


End file.
